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Something over an hour later, Holt took stock of the situation. They still pursued the same tactics, harrying the Gorren on all sides but the front, each group in turn retreating as the beast made toward it. So far, they had managed to contain it in a small, scrubby valley below the scar. Here, with its movement restricted, Holt had hoped to make some impression on the beast. But truth to tell, it could many times have escaped them; even as they harried it, it hunted them in turn, sensing perhaps that if it slaughtered these, it would not be troubled again for many a year.
In all the beforehand discussions between Holt, Garvan, old Kenfig and his sons, they had none of them conceived how helpless they would prove to be before the powers of a monster such as this. The Gorren’s hide was smooth and slippery, so that neither sword nor arrow could penetrate it. Even Holt’s krist skidded harmlessly off the creature’s exuding slime. Several times now they had tried for the mouth-parts, which seemed the only vulnerable place, one party trying to draw the beast’s attention while the other slipped in beneath. But the Gorren’s eyes could move independently, and its venom burned like fire. The last, most desperate attempt had cost them dear: three men blinded and two killed. Holt gave a bitter sigh at the recollection, and tried to think what was to be done. Unless they could somehow damage the Gorren, it was unlikely to tire before they would; and if they continued as they were, then one by one, weary, distracted or with luck run out, all would be maimed or slain. Retreat could be attempted, but he doubted this was an option, since they could not outrun the angry beast. Some might get home, if others sacrificed themselves; but to no avail, for no herder’s cot would then be safe. It was a grim prospect.
Holt called to Penarc, and voiced his thoughts to the cool-headed herder. Penarc agreed with his assessment, but had no fresh ideas to offer. D’Zar saw their anxious frowns, and came over.
“It is time, methinks, for one to attempt the Gorren’s eyes,” he said, leaning on his mattock and thrusting out his underlip.
“That would be certain death,” Penarc protested.
“To face death is sometimes necessity,” D’Zar said.
“I don’t dispute that,” Holt said slowly. “But such an attempt would be futile. A man would be blinded before he came within striking distance.”
“Not a Rockman,” D’Zar said. “Our eyes are strong. In my forge I can bear the blue fire of fusing metal, whose secret only we know, and I wear no mask. I will go.”
“That is a noble offer,” Penarc said.
“Maybe,” D’Zar grunted. “What says the Captain?” He looked keenly at Holt, who stood silent, wishing the choice were not his. But Garvan was above the scar, less than half a mile as a black crow flew, but a half-hour’s scramble up there and back from where they stayed; and many things might change in half an hour.
“You know why I hesitate, D’Zar son of Zerin,” he said. “The death of your kinsman is already laid at my door.”
“Not by me,” D’Zar said. “I know now he chose freely, as do I. Give the word, Captain, and I will go.”
“Go, then with all our thanks,” Holt said. “We will be close at your back.”
D’Zar stumped off to a vantage-point a short distance away. Here the rocks they had relied on for shelter were fewer and smaller; though there were more trees, spindly rowan, straggling elder, crooked thorn. The Rockman clambered up into the low fork of one of these, peering from behind a branch to see what went forward. It was a thorn-tree, but its vicious spines were apparently beneath his Duergh notice.
Holt called to him the men on his side of the beast, and sent Penarc to work his way round to those on the other, to explain the plan. He set marksmen, the best, to shoot for the beast’s mouth as it turned toward them. The rest he gathered together to follow D’Zar in along the beast’s flank. Looking out cautiously he caught glimpses of Penarc making similar dispositions. But the Gorren had become impatient and suspicious at the lull. Its head swung from side to side, questing, and those closest cowered down and hid their eyes as the Gorren’s fell glance flickered over them like the flash of some deathly beacon. Suddenly the creature gave out its thunderous hiss and made for the Rockman.
D’Zar saw his chance. “Now!” he shouted, and leaping down pounded, it seemed, straight into the monster’s jaws. The stones shook and echoed to the war-cry of the Duerghar, an ear-shattering, guttural shriek to make the strongest adversary quail, as D’Zar raised it in a great voice and drove in to the attack.
The Gorren did not quail. It lowered its head to deal with this impudent assailant, uncurling its prehensile tongue. But this was what D’Zar needed. He sidestepped the groping tongue, swung his mattock like a hammer-thrower and smashed it into the Gorren’s eye upon its lowered horn.
A scream rent the air like the cry of many tortured souls. The Gorren reared up, thrashing, and a foul stench arose, choking even those who had become something accustomed to its vile odour. Pale viscous fluid began to ooze from its shattered eye. Its tongue lolled. Now was the moment to drive in for the kill. But the creature’s second horn was flailing this way and that, dealing its lethal sparks in all directions, while D’Zar lay upon the ground where the Gorren’s violent spasm had thrown him. Before he could rise the beast gave another dreadful scream, and its tongue had seized him about the waist.
From the shelter of the Gorren’s blind side Holt saw, and was sick. But a thought came.
“Give me your scarf,” he demanded of the the man next to him. The man stared, then quickly unwound the scarf from his mouth and put it into Holt’s outstretched hand. Holt bound it hastily about his brow, pulling the thick folds down over his right eye. Then, before any had guessed what he was about, he leapt in after D’Zar.
The eye-horn came down toward him as he leapt. Even as its terrible light seared his own exposed eye he struck up at it with the krist, and felt the Lantean blade bite deep. Then he stumbled, for he could not see, and fell into a stream of venom that burned his hands and face. The Gorren howled as though to wake the dead stones with its agony, but Holt lay still, and D’Zar half in the Gorren’s jaws lay still, and mist began to gather above the valley-wall like a cloud of death.
But the others who fought were valiant. When they saw that both the Gorren’s eyes had lost their power they swept in from each side, finishing the work the two heroes had begun, hacking at the foul tongue until D’Zar was freed, pulling Holt away from the pool of venom. Both were carried swiftly to a distance of a few yards, their venom-soaked scarves and clothing torn off and all traces of the vile stuff wiped away. Both were burned, D’Zar the worst, for he had lain many minutes in the Gorren’s jaws. Both were unconscious, their eyes closed. None doubted but that both were blind.
They drew off when the Gorren lay, its vast bulk twitching a little, unable to move. It was not yet dead, but powerless for the moment to do any harm. One was sent for Garvan, but he was found close at hand, making his way down to see what was afoot. When he saw Holt lying senseless among the wounded, his cat crouched by him crying, he momentarily covered his face with his hand. But there was much to be done. Once the wounded were made comfortable, and those at the scar brought down, he set all who were fit to felling a young pine, and trimming it to make a great stake. This they heated in the fire until it began to burn, then thrust it in between the Gorren’s jaws until only a few inches were left protruding. So the Gorren was slain, and carrion birds from miles around began to flock in black clouds to that place.
No more could be done that day. It was decided to return later, when the carcass had rotted, and roll down stones until the remains were covered. For the time being, they removed some distance and camped for the night, bearing the dead and wounded on stretchers of woven branches. By morning another man was dead, and several in poor case, Holt and D’Zar among them. They had not wakened, though sometimes they cried out in their sleep.
The next day they wended home. Some decided to make for their own steadings, bearing their dead and leading their blind with them. But most returned first to Kenfig’s dwelling, for he and his daughter were noted healers. At evening they came to the farmstead. Linnuis stood at the gate, wrapped in a sheepskin cloak and bearing a lantern. She looked on the face of each one that was borne through, and over some she made the sign that the herd-folk gave to the dead, but the others she touched with her hand; those that were conscious smiled at her, and some of the others seemed eased. Last but one came Holt, with Garvan walking by his stretcher.
Linnuis laid her hand across Holt’s brow, holding her lantern high, then looked up into Garvan’s troubled face.
“Can you do aught for him, mistress?” he said. “This is my fault. How shall I face his lady, if he dies, or if he is blind?”
“’Tis pity you did not weigh that, my lord, before you persuaded him to an enterprise of such hazard,” she answered, falling into step beside him. The prince flinched at her words as from a blow.
“But I did not,” he said. “The act that brought him to this I did not order, nor would I have. I had asked him to lead before I knew him my Lady’s choice, and could scarcely withdraw the commission. Not that I thought we should end in such straits.”
“Yet some will believe you took this chance to bring down your rival.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But Amrielle at least will not. True Fir Domnan pledge only once, and she is not one ever to slight her word, though given in secret. I know it, and she knows I would know it. You do not understand me well, mistress, if you think me likely to harm her Chosen from hope for myself, or from spite.”
“I do not think so,” she said. “I know you better, my lord, than you credit.”
“Then you know what I would ask of you,” he said.
“Ay, my lord. I know all you would ask me.”
“I will give you any fee.”
“I would seek to save the Captain for his sake, and for the Jewel of Loigris, who has taken herself a true man, recking nothing of rank or race. But I will do it also for your fee, Lord Garvan.”
Weary and distracted the prince went to his pallet, unaware of the price that might one day be levied by the craft of Linnuis, the herder’s daughter.
Those that were whole or not too badly hurt were lodged in their former hut, the dead in another. But those sorely wounded, some seven, Linnuis directed to be brought into the main hut, where she and old Kenfig tended them all that night, and for many days afterward.
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